


Sea Story

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mermaids, Obsessive Love, Ocean, Psychological Horror, Sharing a Bed, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the brothers move into a cottage by the sea to escape the trauma that the hunting life inflicted upon them, Sam starts changing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly suggestion to play some [ocean sounds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f77SKdyn-1Y) for this fic; no music.
> 
> There is no explicit pairing in this fic, which is why I'm using the mysterious combination of gen content and a listed pairing. I just don't feel like the relationship between the brothers in the story is... comfortable, which is why I feel like a warning is in place. Secondly, the amount of touching and kissing that happens in this fic is probably more to the liking of the shipper audience, at least if you're not here for porn.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

They get the seaside cottage in mail. It arrives in an envelope in their post box in Lawrence, the one they give out to people they've met along the way: to other hunters, to victims, to people they've helped, to the occasional friend. It's Dean who finds it, and at first he thinks it's a court summons or something else that'd tell him they need to switch identities and addresses again. The envelope is branded with the name and address of a law firm; he tears it open with a sinking feeling as he steps out of the building and back into the Impala.

The leather seat pulls him in deeper as he reads it. He remembers Miriam Simon, remembers her young granddaughter he pulled out of a werewolf den some odd ten years earlier. He remembers Sam holding the girl, then gently delivering her into that silver-haired woman's embrace, blood drying on his face and matting his hair. He remembers the way Miriam looked at them. She didn't ask questions. She found her answers from the blaze behind them, their faces and the evidence that had led them all there that night. And she nodded, returned to her car with the girl still in her grip, and vanished. The next morning, she brought them a full home-made meal into their motel room and asked how she could repay them - or at least for a way to contact them, should anything else ever happen. And Dean remembers giving her this address, the one printed upon the law firm's envelope.

She'd left them a cottage.

What would they ever do with a cottage?

Two years later, they drive to the cottage to view it. They need a place to patch Sam up, and it's close enough, if a five hours long drive can be called such. They stay in there for a week before another hunt drags them away, but somehow, it feels like home then, and that week leaves a seed buried deep within them that will take almost exactly twenty-four months to blossom from an inconvenient idea to a craving and finally a desire, a need.

In July, in the midst of a rainy spell sluggishly moving across, it seemed, the entirety of North America, they get inside a car and drive back to the cottage with everything they own. All of their guns, all of their clothes and all of their few personal belongings rattle in there together with them, filling the car up, but not nearly to the same degree as any other family's possessions would have. Together in the midst of everything that had stuck with them along the years, they cross the continent and finally, _finally_ , stop at the end of an unpaved road with wild flowers poking out in the midst of it and lining its sides as if planted there, with a curious sensation tugging at their hearts.

No more hunting. No more nothing.

This would be home now.

 

* * *

 

Dean pulls the last bag out of the car and hangs it upon his shoulder, makes a swift turn with his heels digging into the dirt road, and heads towards the door again. Sam's there, holding the door open; he's got a scared little smile on him, and he's a little bent, too tall to fit in the door's frame.  
  
"I made some juice," he lets Dean know as he moves aside to let him in, "Dumped the melting ice from the cooler in there, so it's cold." 

"Good" is the only word that Dean manages to grunt as he pushes past Sam and dumps the last bag on top of the other bags, all of them piled in an awkward mess on top of the worn, hand-carved couch with a woven blanket cast over it.

He draws a finger across the colourful strips of cloth and lets out a thoughtful sound. It all feels so strange: the decision to leave their lives behind, prompted by weariness of the soul rather than anything else, Sam's in particular. He's never been the same after Hell, and Dean... pushed those memories back for much too long himself, he concludes. In this place, maybe they can start healing. It's far from everything, but that's just what he likes to think of as a blessing. It can be their own little slice of heaven for all he knows. Far from everything means far from the world, and far from the world means less pain, less suffering, less death, less trouble. They've got a little boat, too. He can see it when he looks out the dirty window, dragged onto the shore but still chained firmly to a block of wood standing deep in the rounded stones cutting the otherwise sandy beach in a half. Silently, he wonders if that little rocky mound is man-made, or just an oddity of nature. Sam follows his gaze and they both look at the open ocean until he lets out a small chuckle and tilts his head, turning back towards Dean.

"It feels weird, I'm not gonna lie," he says quietly. 

Dean grimaces.  
"I'm gonna get myself a glass of that juice. You start unpacking, alright? We can probably throw some stuff into the shed, provided we find a key to the padlock from here somewhere." 

"Yeah. Keep an eye out for that, alright?" 

"Yep."

 

* * *

 

They hang the guns on the walls of their bedroom. There's only one, but they're used to sharing; secretly, although he'd never voice it, something in Dean feels soothed knowing he'll get to feel his brother close by at night. Sure he spreads, and sure they'll end up kicking and pushing each other, it's always been that way, but the closer they are, the safer they are, and that'll never change. And they've brought a spare blanket, too, so that at least they won't be fighting over that - everything else will sort itself out eventually. They'll learn to take their sides, to curl up just right so that there's space for them both. Maybe it'll be easier than either of them thinks. 

There's a small closet for clothes in the room, too; it fits their bare-bones wardrobes just fine, with Dean taking the lower half of the shelves and Sam filling up the ones that are more appropriate for his ridiculous height.

The next thirty minutes get spent as they struggle to replace every light bulb in the cottage. It's slow work, mostly because the majority of them seem to have grown roots, and wrestling them out before inserting another takes ages for both of them. Too big hands, too tight crevices, and much too fragile glass; one bulb shatters, providing Dean some frustrating activity for the next five minutes as he tries to brush the small shards in the trash without stepping into any of them first. Perhaps fate had her hand in guiding him, however, as while he kneels on the floor patting around for the glimmering, sharp stars hidden in the texture of the old planks, a glint of copper or gold catches his eye underneath the couch. It's covered by a layer of dust when he reaches for it, and he can practically feel his fingertips sink through into the filth when he touches it, but he knows what it is before he's dragged it out and blown the dirt off of it.

It's the key to the shed's padlock.

They drink coffee at the small kitchen table, carved from the same wood and by the very same hands that made the couch and the shelves and the bed too, before wandering out into the warm sunset. Nearby, the waves crash onto the beach at a lazy pace, and there are seagulls moving around there, pecking at the wet sand in search for something to eat. The shed is built as an extension of the cabin, with a heavy chain and a padlock tying its dark wood door shut. Dean inserts the key into it and grinds around, and there's sand inside the lock; Sam stands by his side, silent, large hands in his pockets, teeth gnawing absently at his lower lip until the lock finally clicks and he reaches to undo the chain. Together, they pull open the door, and a lone mouse charges out between their feet, disappearing into the tall grass swaying as gently in the breeze as the waves rise and fall just a little further away. Sam watches it go with a tired smile, but Dean's already inserting himself into the cobwebbed darkness. It's full of all sorts of things: shovels, old fishing equipment, pots and packs of aged seeds, even a rusty watering can sits there abandoned. Miraculously, the bare-hanging bulb in the ceiling still works, and in its yellow light, they start digging around the shed together.

Dean takes the fishing rods, the hooks and the lures, as Sam kneels by his feet, hands dirty as he keeps poking around the mess on ground level. Already, the decision to settle down feels just right somehow, Dean thinks. He runs his finger along the texture of the longest rod and imagines himself upon the waves in that green-white boat, hook in the water and sun on his face, freckles blooming as his skin refuses to tan - the sooner he gets there, the better. The sharp sounds of Sam pushing items around to pull something out from behind them drags him back to reality, and he lowers his gaze again to see him holding a curved wooden sign in his hands. 

Sam pats aside the dirt from the dull-blue paint, revealing it in its nostalgic, worn state for them both to see. There are small seashells glued onto its both ends, and between them golden, hand-painted letters spell out the words SIREN SHORE COTTAGE in modest cursive. Dean raises his brows and chuckles, nudging Sam on the head.

"Sure as hell hope that's just a fancy name for the place," he grunts, "and not a reference to any actual sirens."

Sam scoffs, standing up with the sign still in his hand. He examines the rusty metal hook on its back and then lifts his unseeing eyes towards the mess of shelves in front of them, lost in thought.  
"I think it used to hang above the door. There's a nail there, and a darker spot in the wood where the sunlight hasn't burned through." 

"Huh."

"I think," the younger continues, looking down at the sign again and playing around with it in his hands, "it'd be nice to put it back there, don't you think?" 

"Sure," Dean hears himself say, already ready to leave the shed with his loot.  
He doesn't really care one way or the other.  
"Bring it out, then."

 

* * *

 

There's no TV in the cottage, and although basic electricity works, the stove runs with gas and water for a bath would have to be heated over fire. Dean spends a moment on his knees in front of the toilet, trying to figure out if it's clogged without flooding the entire bathroom, which is modest in size and barely fits the bathtub set by the wall. It's not, however, and the shower seems functional as well if he'll ever fancy taking a cold one. The downside is that the water tank seems unreasonably small, and, as he finds out the hard way, flushing twice in a row doesn't work. 

"Don't, uh, go in there for a bit, Sammy," he says as he exits the bathroom, earning an unimpressed look from his brother.

They dip some cheap white bread into a chili-powered soup as an excuse for dinner: nothing fit inside the car on the way there, so groceries would need to be taken care of in the morning. It's an hour drive to the nearest store, but Dean's happy to make it. He's curious about the country surrounding them, the vastness of it and the emptiness, the sheer beauty of nature. If Sam will stay behind, he'll do a little sightseeing on his own. If Sam tags along... well, he might just do it anyway.

Neither of them knows what time it is when they finally close the bedroom door. Outside is pitch black dark, but when Dean leans against the window all the way until his nose taps against it, he sees the vast canvas of twinkling stars above in the smooth black velvet sky. He swallows, suddenly aware of the depth of the dark that he's staring into - the immeasurable distance between himself and the dead lights echoing through time, eternal as they travel across the endlessness. Drawing back, he looks at his brother's shape in the light of the small lamp set into the wall above the bed, and Sam has already changed into his nightwear, a pair of light grey pants that hang loosely upon his form and low over his hips, and a v-neck shirt of matching colour. Their eyes meet, and Sam raises his brows a little as if to ask what froze him there, but Dean doesn't have the words for what he's thinking, the crossing of the universe and its center within Sam's flesh, so he smiles instead and shakes his head as he begins undoing his jeans. He casts them and his socks on the chair beside the wall and scratches an itch from the back of his neck, watching Sam settle on the bed and fluff up his two pillows. Dean's look flatter in comparison - they've stolen each from some motel or another along the way, and one of them is twice as big as the rest. Sam stuffs it between them on the bed and pats it meaningfully, his eyes upon Dean again.

"Don't cross the mountain," he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into a small grin. 

"Fair enough," Dean agrees and throws himself on the bed.  
It's spacious, but not spacious enough. His face digs into the mountain and he breathes in the fading scent of motel bedrooms.  
"I'll drive up to the gas station first thing tomorrow," he continues into it, voice muffled by the pillow, "You coming with me?" 

One eye peering over the mountain, Dean sees Sam shrug.

"Sure," he says, lying down on his back.  
Sam crosses his hands over his stomach after dragging his blanket there, and his eyes trace the planks of the ceiling carefully as he relaxes. 

Dean yawns and closes his eyes.  
"Mind if we take a little tour around the area?" 

"Sounds good to me."

A small smile perseveres upon Dean's lips all the way until sleep washes over him, wiping it from his features in exchange for dreams.

 

* * *

 

They're used to waking early. The air is cool and wet with the salty mist from the crashing waves as they leave the cottage and settle in the car again. The ocean is restless now, grey with foam crowning each wave as they rise from the depths, and Dean watches it over the steering wheel as he turns the car around and finally begins to leave the shoreline behind.

"I was thinking of taking the boat out today," he says, peering at the dark grey sky above, "but I guess that'll have to wait."

He expects to hear an answer, but Sam says nothing. His eyes are glassed over as he stares out the window, his head turned somehow too far backwards as if he was so captivated by the ocean falling behind them that he simply can't look away. Dean stares at him for a moment as the car pushes up a gentle hill, feels a chill rush up his spine and slaps him on the arm.

"Hey. You hear me?"

Sam blinks, looks at him like he's seeing him for the first time.  
"Yeah," he says breathlessly, "yeah, I hear you. Boat. Not a good day. I agree."

Dean lifts a brow but turns his gaze back towards the road.  
"Freak," he mutters and kicks the pedal down.

 

* * *

 

They're surrounded by a vastness of flowering meadows, some thickets of trees not quite measuring up to forests, and run-down abandoned houses from an era long gone by. The first actual neighbour they find is about forty minutes down the road from their new home, in a colonial era house that seems past its days of glory now but still stands tall with a pick-up truck parked in front of it and a couple of horses lazily grazing on patches of yellowed grass in the morning light. Sam marks the place on his map, then slips the pen between his lips again, elbow leaning to the car door's window as he follows the changing scenery around them. Dean steers them onto a battered old road, turns south and heads for the gas station; it takes fifteen more minutes before they have a visual of it.

"55 minutes to civilization," Dean breathes out in a slightly scared voice, "That's a lot of loneliness back there, Sammy." 

"If you can call this place 'civilization'," Sam contests, grimacing.

And he's right; the place is a bit rustic, to say at least. But it's got gas and it's got cereal and enough meat products to keep them alive. The vegetables are fresh enough, too, although Sam seems a little unconvinced as he packs them into a small basket, examining each with care and time as Dean flicks whatever looks like it'll last them a while into his own. They top the whole thing with a bunch of bananas and an entire pineapple, although the latter is Sam's pickings, and pay it all off with the money that they would have at any other time had to pay their motel room with. It still raises a sticky question: they don't have much, and settling down means they can't rely on illegal money anymore. Dean pushes the thought out of his mind right with his wallet as they turn back towards the car.

He'll spend this first week without worrying about things like that. And who knows, maybe Sam's got something brewing up on that laptop of his. They'll figure it out together - they always do. Somehow. 

A bag of salted peanuts lands between them on the front seat as they turn around. When the cottage by the shore appears ahead of them again in a little more than three hours of driving around, the bag's empty.

"Does the fridge work, Sammy?"

"It felt cold when I looked in there last night before we went to bed, so - I hope so."

"Good. Help me carry this stuff in."

 

* * *

 

There's a strange intensity in the way Sam stares into the vastness of the sea continuing past the horizon and stretching endlessly on both sides. They're small there, sitting on the sand with their mugs of hot chocolate steaming into the chilly air. Dean's not watching the ocean. He's watching his brother, the way small particles of tan sand stick to his jeans and his t-shirt, and the way his long fingers curve around his warm mug. Sometimes, Sam reaches up to wipe his nose or scratch at his cheekbone where his hair left a tickle behind, and sometimes he sips his drink, but mostly he's still and quiet and nuzzles the warmth in his lap by pressing his thighs against it, the mug half-buried into his abdomen with his shirt bagging over it.

"Do you think we'll grow old here?" Sam asks him as wind blows over them, sending his hair all over his face.  
He doesn't even seem to notice. 

"Who knows, Sammy."  
Dean lifts his cup to his lips and drinks. The taste is rich and deep and so strong that it leaves his tongue feeling dry.  
"Growing old still seems like it wasn't meant for us." 

A hint of a smile stretches Sam's lips, and the man looks down into his cup, picks out something that has fallen into it - a hair, some floating dry sand, Dean doesn't know. After a brief silence Sam turns his head to the right, measures the distance between them and the rocky cliff rising up from the ocean what could be an entire mile away. 

"Wanna go exploring?" he asks.

Dean lifts his brows, peers around his brother to view the cliff, and then raises his eyes towards the grey sky.  
"Today? It's gonna rain, Sam." 

Sam shrugs and turns to watch Dean with a playful grin on him.  
"So what? We're free. We could go there, see what it is, and come back and light the fireplace; find out what that ancient firewood is good for." 

Dean considers it. It's a long walk, but it feels tempting. What feels more tempting than that is seeing that kind of curiosity and excitement in his brother again - it seems like it's been years since Sam last smiled that way. Finally, he tilts his head with a grimace.

"I guess it won't kill us," he admits and drinks again. 

Maybe Sam knows what they need better than he ever will.

 

* * *

 

They trek along the beach, not quite far down enough for the sand to give in but along the line where enough grass fights to survive for the roots to tie the ground together underneath their feet. The cliff takes ages to start growing larger, but when the atmospheric haze starts parting, Dean realises it's much bigger than he thought. He also notes that the waves don't crash into the cliff from this side, but rather drag into a collection of sharp rocks standing out of the water underneath it. Between those and the steep-rising wall of stone, the beach carries on for a stretch longer, disappearing behind a curve in the cliff. It's wet in there, the sprays from the waves raining down on them like the drizzling rain that started on the way in, but the brothers follow the beach into that little nook and discover a sheltered bay. It's strange that there is no trash there, nothing to indicate the presence, past or else, of people, but who would come this far out in the middle of nowhere for a day out anyway?

Dean drops onto his knees, digs a hole in the sand just because he can. Meanwhile, Sam walks around on the sand, head bent as he peers up at the cliff's edge above. Then he stops and turns to look at the ocean again: its waves remain irritated, like an underwater horde of bulls making threatening charges towards them. He follows Dean down onto the ground and reaches a hand out, strokes some sand off of Dean's face although Dean can't figure out where he got it on him in the first place. He's smiling still, like this is the best field trip he's ever been on.

"What are you doing?" he asks, poking a finger into the pit Dean's clawed into the sand.

"I don't know," Dean replies, his voice betraying how surprised he is to find himself there to begin with, "I just felt like doing it, I guess."

Sam's big hands join his, and they dig at the beach like two dogs in the search of a hidden bone. Piles of sand turn up on both sides, growing ever larger, until Sam's fingers finally scrape at something with a nasty, dry sound. He concentrates around that area for a little while as Dean watches, finally releasing an old, worn seashell. He lifts it up and pats sand off of it, looking around.

"There might be tons of these just hidden under the sand," he says.

"Should be some on the sand, too."

"Not necessarily," Sam mutters, "the tide..."

He stands up, still holding the shell in his hand. He stays still for a moment before picking another place, and he discards his shell next to a new pit he starts digging there.

Dean falls on his backside on the sand and starts staring at the waves, drizzle wetting his hair and face and feeling cold and moist over his shoulders already. The sounds of Sam digging up three more seashells accompanies him as he fades into something like a trance, eyes blind as he holds them open against the contrast of a white-grey sky and the deep dark ocean below it. 

"Hey, Dean?"

"Hm?" 

"Wanna climb up on the cliff before we go back?"

"Sure."

Dean glances at Sam, the pouch he's made of his t-shirt for his haul of shells. He smiles. They've never been to the beach before, but they're both acting like they've played there their whole lives. And sure, they've been to other beaches; lakes, rivers, ponds. But not the ocean. Never the ocean, not before they first came here. And this is the first day they really ever got to spend there, just exploring, now that Sam's leg isn't bleeding and patched up from his toes all the way up to his knee. The thought of it maybe being the first of a thousand days just as slow and peaceful as this one...

They walk around the cliff again, then start hiking up its side to reach the high-standing rough edge. From there, a view opens to the ocean, but not so much to the land - one of those not-quite-forests makes its home by the base, and it grows thickest along the sides of some rolling hills behind them. But ahead, the foam-crowned, Russian blue waves stir like a pattern printed into a fabric, shivering and ever-changing in their eyes. From this far up, the waves no longer look so large and intimidating.

A few stones roll down and into the steep fall towards the bay they just climbed up from as Sam seats himself on the edge, his sneakers firmly upon a few bits of rock standing out of the wall. Dean follows him, stands right behind him as if to catch him should he start slipping down.

"Doesn't your ass get wet?" he asks with a grunt, fingers treading through Sam's spray-wet hair.

Sam slaps his hand away.

"Let me have this, alright?"

Dean's grin is crooked and mild. He watches as Sam lays down his seashells on the cliff next to them, then picks them up one by one. They aren't covered in sand anymore - he washed them in the waves before tucking them in his shirt. Most of them are white with brown or grey markings, but one has a slightly pinkish tint to it, a tint that grows stronger on the highest point of its curve and turns to foam-white around the jagged edges. It's almost perfect, if not for a small hole near the outer rim.

"The hell are you gonna do with those?" Dean asks him, kneeling down and picking one up from the grass.

He turns it around and feels the rough texture in his hands. Somehow, he always thought seashells would be smooth. These are not: they resemble the ruggedness of the ocean that gave birth to them. Sam takes it back from him, adds it into a pile.

"I don't know yet," he says, one foot slipping off its rock and swaying above the fall, "Maybe put them in a jar or something. For decoration."

"Did you get that off of the housewife side of Pinterest or something?"

Sam huffs.  
"I'll figure something out," he says then and hides the shells inside his clothes again.

 

* * *

 

The fireplace works, and they warm up some sausages while sitting there trying to get dry. Rain hammers at the dirty windows around them and Dean wonders if he can get them clean with what they've got in here. They haven't bought any houskeeping supplies - it just didn't occur to either, as if the thought of settling down is still too foreign to translate into action, into purchases. But he's kept his car clean for years and maybe tidying up a house isn't that different in the end.

Sam seems exhausted. He keeps yawning into his meat and finally shoves the end of it in his mouth just to get it over with, downs it with a glass of water and stands up, announcing his intentions of going to bed early. Dean lets him go.

After the bedroom door closes, ceasing the sounds of evening activities such as brushing teeth and shaving, Dean feels strangely lonely. He curls up in the corner of the couch and drags the rainbow blanket over his body despite the heat radiating from the glowing embers in the fireplace. The cottage has those strange sounds of an old building, despite its small size; it creaks and clangs, whines and breathes around him like a cavetroll. And Sam's not wrong. He's exhausted, too. Just not quite ready to turn in yet - to end today, the day of transition between his old life and this new, strange, quiet life. Maybe it wasn't the right choice to make, he finds himself thinking. This solitude, this... detachment, a complete 180 from the life they've lived before. Or is it? Perhaps they've been surrounded by people, by busy streets, motel parking lots, malls, residential areas. But have they ever been a part of that? Have they ever been any less alone than they are now, any less isolated?

 _Do you think we'll grow old here_ , Sam had asked him.

Growing old.

Dean swallows and closes his eyes. What a strange, unfamiliar thought.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to a different kind of a creak. His heart races - he knows that sound. Someone's moving. Strangely. In heavy, yet silent steps. He doesn't recognise the weight or the pace of them. It doesn't sound human. Dragging, creeping steps, like something that isn't controlled by a conscious mind.  
  


The fire is out and there isn't one ray of light in the cottage. Dean considers his options, trying to locate the sound and the direction of it. It passes him not too far away, towards the door, so Sam's safe at least. He hasn't heard struggling, Sam hasn't called for help; slowly, he twists his body to see the bedroom door.  
  


It stands open. Its frames are nothing but a deeper tone of pitch black in the wall that consists of nothing but, but somehow, Dean knows it's open. He holds his breath and turns back towards the dragging footsteps, now out of the room and in the small space amongst their shoes and jackets, ready to leave the house. He stands up, sweating, skin cold, heart aching, but determined. Sam's here somewhere, he knows it; Sam's not hurt. Sam's not gone. Sam's right here with him, tracking this thing.  
  


His head is swimming and struggling to part with his restful sleep, and his skin feels tingly and numb as he avoids collision with the small table in front of him and moves silently across the room. The door's opening, and pale, barely visible light shines in through it, but he can't make apart the shape standing in front of it, he just hears the hinges creak and the first step on the veranda.  
  


"Sam?" he breathes into the darkness.  
  


Nothing answers him. Swallowing, he stops to make a decision. Either he follows this thing, or he goes to check on Sam, _just_ in case. Maybe he's still asleep. Maybe he's... Dean doesn't know what else Sam could be. Unconscious? Not hurt. He'd know if Sam was hurt. Cursing internally, he turns around and swiftly crosses the living room into the bedroom. With one last glance towards the now open, empty doorway out, he turns the bedroom lights on.  
  


The bed is empty.  
  


A thought, a strange but comforting thought, enters his mind. His posture relaxes, straightens, and he sighs heavily as he turns around and leaves the room again. He leaves his socks on the floor - outside, the grass and the sand will both still be wet from the rain even though by the sound of it it has ceased already. There's sand on the floor and on the veranda as he steps out, squinting into the night.  
  


"Hey, Sammy," he speaks to the quietly moaning wind and the splashing of the waves somewhere ahead of him, "Don't make me come get you, alright?"  
  


He's moving anyway. Sam won't be listening. It's been years and years since this last happened, so long that he'd almost forgotten, but it makes sense - the change in their environment, the fact that they're suddenly sleeping full nights instead of a couple hours here and there, it all fits the picture.  
  


"Sam!"  
  


The ocean greets him by sending sprays of water across the beach as a particularly large wave crashes with land. Dean stops in the midst of it, his eyes finally starting to adjust to the cloudy night. It's still dark, but maybe some parts of it are slightly less dark than others, and one shape in particular seems to form a person standing, swaying, by the waterline. Waves cross over his feet so that at times he seems to grow directly out of the water, and around him, those rounded stones sit here and there, scattered from the mound to the right.

Dean takes that direction and walks steadily towards the shape, but he doesn't really know what to do next, how to get Sam to follow him in. He remembers it well from before, the fights he used to put up if Dean ever tried to wake him from this state. Now 6'4" and trained to kill, a struggle like that could turn ugly fast.  
  


"Sammy," he repeats as he stops before his brother's unconscious shape just standing there by the ocean, "let's go back inside."  
  


He puts his hand into Sam's, and something rubs him wrong about the way the man feels. There's something... wrong with the feel of him, something odd that either should not be there or is absent from Dean's memory of how Sam _should_ feel, but he doesn't pay it much attention. He's got more important things to concentrate on.

"Sammy. Baby brother. C'mon."

He tugs at the other's hand, but Sam's rooted into the ground. His hand is limp and cold and feels... slimy somehow, slippery, like the scales of a fish. Dean frowns and shudders, but tugs again anyway.

"Seriously, Sam. I don't want to wrestle you here right now. God knows how that'd end."  
  


He looks at the waves, barely visible but sometimes reflecting a light he doesn't know where it comes from, and thinks about how utterly exhausted he feels, how heavy his limbs are and how much he just wants to go back to bed. It takes him a while to realise that Sam's now suddenly looking at him, and the sudden awareness of the fact makes him jump.  
  


"Fuck, Sam."  
He grimaces and finally releases Sam's hand, bringing his arm around his shoulders instead.  
"Let's _go_."  
  


This time, Sam moves with him. His each step is like he's never walked before, toes colliding with the sand and sometimes causing him to stumble, but even stumbling doesn't trigger the appropriate reaction - rather, it tenses his body so that Dean has to fight to keep him upright. He doesn't seem to know how to put one foot over the other so they're moving slow, and the further away they get from the water, the more Dean thinks he can smell the sea on his brother's skin. Unthinking, he pokes his nose into Sam's shoulder and takes a deep breath.  
  


"You smell like the sea food section in an outdoor market, Sam. Fuck."  
  


Sam stumbles again when they get up the two steps onto the veranda, and there, Dean drops him onto a chair and shakes a whole lot of sand off of his clothes, more than just a little weirded out, hoping that Sam would just freaking wake up, any time now would be good enough. He kneels in front of his brother and takes his now dry hands into his own, shakes him a little, holds him firmly and calls his name: Sam's eyes still watch him, a small frown on his features.  
  


"You're sleepwalking, Sam. Wake up. Wake up, Sam. We've got to go back to bed but I need to hear you're - you - before we do that, alright?"  
  


Something just doesn't feel right. Dean wants to push it aside, but he's felt it too many times to ignore it. More often than not, it's been the only thing standing between him and an unexpected, unnatural death; he's learned to take his gut seriously whenever it complains, be it of bad Mexican food or something more disturbing than that.  
  


"Sammy, for fuck's sake, I will dump a fucking bucket of water on you if you don't -"  
  


"Hm?"  
  


Sam blinks, clarity slowly returning to his gaze. He turns his head around and sees the ocean, or so Dean thinks, and he squints at it and then at Dean and his expression evolves from blank to confused to concerned within only a few heartbeats.

"Why... am I here?" he asks hollowly, his words coming out a little jumbled and unrefined.

His voice sounds like he's inhaled an entire lungful of water and coughed it out afterwards.  
  


Dean lets out a small breath.

"I don't know, now do I?" he asks, frustration rising inside him, "How about you explain that? I wake up and you're zombieing around the house like a freaking - like a freaking zombie - and then you walk out here and start whale-spotting or whatever the fuck you were doing, in the middle of the night just - standing out there, Jesus."  
  


The corners of Sam's mouth twitch, but he lowers his head and starts rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand to hide it.  
"I'm sorry. Fuck... it's been years since this last happened."  
  


Dean holds his breath and then lets it out slowly, standing up. The fish market stench still lingers about his brother, and he can't help but wonder about the texture of his skin just the same. It doesn't seem like he has the full story yet, as simple as he would want it to be. Could it be possible that Sam had somehow managed to walk past him not once, but twice, without waking him up? That he'd not only stumbled out of his bedroom, but been in the water, too? And then what, walked back, closed the door and stayed around to shed sand over the floors, hovering just close enough for Dean's instincts to finally pick up on his presence, only to then do the whole thing over again?

But why?  
  


"Dean?"  
  


Sam's hand is pale when it reaches for Dean's arm, and there's dirt under his nails, wherever the hell he managed to pick that up on the way.  
  


"It's nothing," Dean mutters, pulling away and rubbing his arm where Sam's touch left a cold spot on him, "Let's go back inside."  
  
  


* * *

 

Sam falls asleep quickly. He remains disoriented and sluggish until then, a detail that continues to twist Dean's insides with concern, but when he sleeps, his breathing is steady and calm and he curls up just like he always does, on his side in a loose fetal position facing Dean. Dean's hand has crossed the line drawn by the mountain pillow between them, now pushed against the headboard so that they have a direct line of sight between them, but he's not quite close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his brother. Drifting off to sleep is much harder for him now than he anticipated, and when he finally succumbs, his dreams are dreadful flashes of deep underwater places and Sam sinking further and further underneath the waves, his body going pale, then snow white as he reaches in vain for the surface, for Dean, who struggles and struggles to dive deeper to grab a hold of him before he disappears. He wakes up multiple times more when Sam's face fades from view into the murky depth below, gasping for air as if he's really been holding it in, and while no longer as penetrating as before, the scent of ocean still surrounds Sam, only serving to increase the discomfort in Dean's gut.

He's relieved to see dawn breaking through the window when he jerks awake again, lungs burning with the need to breathe. Slipping out of the bed, he casts a worrying look towards Sam, but Sam's face is void of pain or distress, merely reflecting his state of sleep. His lips are parted behind a fisted hand, and Dean's exhale trembles as he watches him.

Tonight, like all others, will pass, he reminds himself and exits the room.  
  


He hears seagulls as he puts the coffee dripping. He leans against the counter and watches the birds float above water, beaks opening to let out the repeating screams, beady black eyes scanning the ocean below them. There are seven of them hunting a pack of fish, and the ocean has calmed; between the shreds of clouds, the sunrise is painting the waves with its gorgeous shades, and Dean tries to drive away his discomfort with the renewed promise of a day out at sea. He could be there with the gulls, he thinks, fishing them all a free dinner. The earthy scent of coffee slowly fills the room as he imagines the waves cradling the boat, trying to recall the vision he had of the sun and the gentle winds, but his dreams and the odd atmosphere that haunted him throughout the night call his mind towards whatever lurks beneath the surface. He closes his eyes and sees Sam's hand reaching out for him again, just barely out of reach, sinking - sinking - sinking... His body twitches with discomfort, and his elbow collides with a mug that falls over and rolls into the sink, making noise that at least shakes him out of his nightmares. Outside, a beautiful day is dawning.  
  


He's got to leave whatever last night was behind him.  
  


He pours himself a cup of coffee and butters a slice of bread that he carries with him to the table just a couple steps away from the counter. The kitchen is small, but it has the scent of home-made food, of spices and baking yeast permanently stuck in its air, and Dean feels at home in it. He draws a chair and settles in it, wishing he had a newspaper; it takes him a moment to realise he's got a tablet inside one of the bags he hasn't unpacked yet, and with a groan, he pulls up again and wanders into the living room in search of it. He avoids glancing at the couch to avoid calling back the unease from before as it lingers strongly in his system just waiting for an excuse to break free again, and instead heads for a rugged-looking camo green backpack sitting against the wall beside a bookcase. He opens it and pushes aside some books, including John's journal, and drags out the flat little metallic object beside it, fingers leaving marks upon its otherwise spotless screen. He rubs them off with the hem of his shirt and checks his reflection from the screen; he seems paler than usual, and his pupils are wide and nervous-looking. His freckles stand out, too, as does the colour of his lips. Maybe they're both getting ill. Too much fresh air.  
  


Dean brings the tablet with him to the kitchen and connects to the portable wifi stuck to Sam's quietly-whirring laptop in the other room. The signal's weaker here, but it loads alright, and it only takes him a moment to confirm that the world is exactly as it used to be outside this little bubble of theirs. He carries on reading - news articles, funny columns, a newsletter for classic car owners - until the bedroom door creaks and Sam appears, his large hand stuck in his hair that seems much more tangled than usual, as if he's really taken a dip in sea water without washing the salt off.  
  


"Morning," Sam mutters, peering through sleepy eyes at the coffee, "what time is it?"  
  


Dean's eyes flicker towards the top of his screen.  
"Six in the morning," he tells the other, "you look like crap, Sam."  
  


"Yeah," Sam chuckles, shuddering as he fills himself a cup, "I feel a little off."  
  


"You remember anything from last night? I mean, did you go swimmin' or something?"  
  


Sam turns towards him and watches him for a moment, frowning.  
"I really can't remember," he finally says, shrugging as he leans to the counter like Dean did, "I have these - flashes - where I'm sitting on the porch with you and I can hear the ocean, but I don't know if that really happened."  
  


Dean grimaces. He stands up and goes to the fridge, pulling out a canister of milk. He hands it to Sam, who pours some into his coffee.  
  


"But you do remember sleepwalking?" Dean asks him as he returns it, and he places it back inside the fridge before falling into his chair.  
  


"Not really," Sam says again, "but I knew what you meant, so I guess that means something."  
  


Dean nods. They're quiet for a moment, perhaps fifteen or twenty seconds, before Sam lets out a wet cough. At first Dean thinks he choked on his coffee, but when he lowers it and keeps coughing, he realises the other's lips seem a little discoloured - blueish or purple, like he's hypothermic. And he's sheet white, too.  
  


"I think you might be ill, Sam. Not kidding."  
  


Sam drags a rasping breath and shudders again. Then he laughs, a small little laugh that ends in a half-cough. He pulls himself up again and lifts his cup of coffee up to his lips, drinking.  
"I guess you were right about taking a walk in the rain," he mutters.  
  


"Should have been a better brother and told you to sit inside. You want me to light the fireplace?"  
  


"No, thanks. I'm alright. It's just - I hope it'll pass. Anyway, how did you - did you get any sleep?"  
  


Dean grunts, but turns his head back to the tablet and switches off the screen. He looks into his coffee for a little while before grunting again and shrugging.  
"Not really," he finally manages to say, turning his eyes to Sam again.  
  


Sam grimaces.  
"Sorry," he says, and sounds like he really is.  
  


"No, it's... just - don't take another walk in the middle of the night again, alright?"  
  


"Right."  
  


"Anyway," Dean continues, although his motivation is still dwindling, "I was thinking I'd go fishing today. Test drive that boat and the rods we found from the shed."  
  


Sam nods.  
"Sounds fun."  
He sips his coffee again and his eyes linger upon the view from the window.  
"I thought I'd go swimming," he says then, slowly, "but I guess that depends on how I'll feel later."  
  


"Yeah. No swimming if you're sick."  
  


"Mm. Well, I guess I'll find out. It's not like I'm going in right now anyway."  
  


"Yeah. Eat breakfast, Sam. You're a big guy, you gotta eat."  
  


Sam smiles slightly, rolls his eyes; Dean throws him a slice of bread that he catches. It falls apart in his grip, but he shoves bits of it in his mouth anyway, watching his brother with an unreadable expression.  
  
  


* * *

 

They dig worms together. It takes them deep into a hole to find any, but they gather up a good amount in a bucket anyway, and when Dean's finally happy with the bait he's got, he's sweating bullets from all the digging and picking under the cloudless sky above. The last shreds of stormy grey have passed, making way for the more typical fair weather. Sam seems better, too: his skin is still paler than Dean would like it, but he's no longer coughing, and his lips seem so rich with pink that Dean doubts they were ever any other shade at all. While he packs up the boat and inspects it for any obvious faults, Sam changes into a pair of shorts, and when Dean hops in it's Sam who pushes him out to the sea. There's no engine in the thing, just a pair of oars hanging in their hoops, but Dean's done rowing before and he recalls it just fine in a few moments. It means he can't go far, but it doesn't matter; the fish are out there everywhere. As he rows away from the shore, he watches Sam walk into the waves and finally throw himself into their embrace only to surface a second later, shaking his hair all over like a wet dog. He seems well now, and even as he shrinks into the distance, Dean can't fear losing him, not like he did overnight.  
  


Sam's a good swimmer. He wouldn't just drown.  
  


It's hard to be afraid of nightmares in broad daylight.  
  


The boat takes him into the open blue, and when he can't really see Sam splashing around anymore, he hooks a worm and sends it beyond the surface. It sinks out of sight, disappearing eventually, and Dean lets it go and go until he feels lucky with the depth he's got going there, and then settles to wait. The ocean is still, small waves lapping against the sides of the green-and-white boat, and he rocks together with it, Bobby's old cap protecting him from heat stroke and burns over his face. His loose flannel should take care of the rest, or at least he hopes so; it's been a long time since he last got sunburnt, but he doesn't recall the previous occasion with any particular fondness. Perhaps it'd be worth it to invest in some sunscreen - they'll be spending a lot of time outdoors from now on, and they'll be doing it during daylight hours.  
  


It'll be a while until he grows used to that idea.  
  


He leans back and turns his gaze towards the waves and the light playing upon their backs. A wet breeze caresses his face and he can feel the salt it carries in it settle upon his face like a crystal mask, stretching his skin as it dries. The motion is already making him a little ill: it's been a while since he last got on a boat, and he figures it'll take some getting used to before he'll be at home there. But damn, he's always loved fishing, and he's never had enough time to get bored of it. The waves tug at the tip of the rod, but none of that motion reveals a curious victim nibbling at the sacrifice yet, so Dean keeps his hold of it firm but steady and waits for something more to happen. He's breathing deep, sometimes squinting towards the shore to see if Sam's still there, but he can't tell for sure. The cottage looks so small from here, even though it isn't big to begin with. Caught between two tiny hills, it seems like it's been there forever, like it grew there as naturally as the trees further behind it. From distance, Dean realises there's a trail running down from the door to the beach: he's never seen it from up close, not even as he's walked down to the shoreline following it near precisely, but the freshly grown grass can't hide the pattern this far. It's like viewing it from high up above through a bird's eyes. Perhaps with time, the two of them will walk up and down along it often enough to reveal it again.  
  


A splash nearby catches Dean's attention, but whatever visited the surface is gone by the time he turns around to see it. The ripples remain, pointing towards a medium-sized fish; good for dinner, not so much for toppling the boat over. A gust follows from the open ocean, causing bigger waves, and Dean stretches his limbs and raises his face towards the sky with his eyes closed.  
  


At this rate, he won't even have to row back home - he'll be carried there by the waves eventually anyway.  
  
  


* * *

 

Afternoon stretches late before Dean heads back to the shore. He jumps out of the boat and drags it up to the pole standing out of the mound of stones, and he chains it there before taking out his bucket of fish and whatever remains of his jar of earthworms, which he places in shade on the porch to wait for the next time he heads out there. Expecting to see Sam inside, he shouts a greeting by the door, but no one answers him. The fish are still as he dumps the bucket onto the kitchen counter - Sam's not there, either. Frowning, Dean heads to the bedroom, but he finds that as empty as the rest of the house.  
  


The waves still lap over the beach in that same calm manner they've done the entire day, and not a soul seems to be on the beach as far as the eye can see. Dean walks around the house, expecting to find Sam in the shed looking for something, but the padlock is intact upon the door and the hills behind the cottage are shadeless and untrampled as he views them from below. Heart picking up its pace and his hair starting to stand on end, Dean turns slowly towards the beach again, looking now more intently at the waves as if expecting Sam's shape to bounce back up on the surface, but he can't be there anymore - it's been six hours since he went swimming. He'd be insane to still be in there.  
  


So where the hell is he?  
  


"Sam?" Dean calls again, his voice uncertain.  
  


It's not the weather that chills him when he keeps walking around the house, or when he hops up the steps onto the porch and back inside the house. He throws open the bathroom door with concern blowing up inside his chest, but if he expected to find Sam there, he was once again wrong. A drop of water clings to the tap's mouth: as Dean watches, it falls into the sink and vanishes. Shuddering, Dean turns around, drawing breath to yell Sam's name again.  
  


That breath catches in his throat and dies when he comes face to face with his brother.  
  


"Jesus, Sam," he chokes, eyes drawing to the man's lips.  
This time he's not imagining it. They're blue and purple against his greyish skin - like a corpse's. Dean's about to say something, but as his lips part, Sam coughs again; he raises his hand over his mouth and wheezes. It's like he can't breathe, and Dean has no idea what to do about it, or about anything else.  
  


"I'm lighting the fire," he finally manages to say.  
  


Sam doesn't move when he pushes past him. He smells of seaweed again.  
  
  


 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

Dean runs the towel through Sam's dripping hair for the third time.  
"We've got to get you to a doctor," he says.  
  


"No," Sam counters in an embarrassed voice, "I'm fine. I'll be alright. 's just a cold. Besides, it's better already."  
  


"Where the hell were you, Sam? I looked for you everywhere."  
  


Sam stares at him for a moment, his browns knitted together.  
"What do you mean?"  
  


"Before you scared the shit out of me in the bathroom, where the hell were you?"  
  


"I was right there."  
  


"No you fucking weren't, Sam. I looked through the house. I looked _around_ the house. I looked _in the freaking water._ You weren't anywhere."  
  


A brief silence full of the crackling fire and the steady hum of the ocean outside fills the cottage. Sam watches the flames now, and Dean isn't sure if he's trying to recall something, or if he's gone blank again. His expression says nothing: he could be asleep again for all Dean knows.  
  


"I don't remember," Sam finally admits, his voice strangely hollow and colourless, "I don't... remember."  
  


"You blacked out?"  
  


"I... think so."  
  


Dean bites his teeth together to stop himself from shouting. Sam's ill. Yelling at him won't make him better.  
  


"I'm gonna make some dinner," he says and places the towel around Sam's shoulders, "stay here and don't move."  
  


"Can you bring me my laptop?" Sam asks him, his eyes clear again as he turns for Dean.  
  


Dean nods stiffly.  
"Sure."  
  


He makes the trip back and forth before starting to prepare the fish. For Sam's sake, he heats up some vegetables too; he's not entirely sure if they go well together with the main course, but somehow, it feels like Sam needs his greens now. The rest of the fish he puts in the fridge without a second thought. They'll make a soup tomorrow, or fry them, or whatever. His mind doesn't carry much further than the present moment.  
  


_It's just a cold._   
  


Pneumonia, _maybe -_ and that's the best case scenario. Dean slams the fish into the sizzling butter on the pan and stirs them around. Bits of burning hot grease fly onto his skin but he barely pays attention to it at all. The unease from before has returned with force and he can't stop throwing looks behind his shoulder, as if expecting Sam to turn up again as if from thin air. Where was he? Submerged in the water, or just in the wrong place at the wrong time wherever Dean was looking for him? The former seems more likely: he was still dripping wet when Dean finally found him, or rather, when he finally found Dean.  
  


But six full fucking hours in the water?  
  


Unlikely.  
  


"Sam?" Dean calls.  
  


"Yeah?"  
  


"Just making sure."  
  


The scent of fish frying starts replacing the pervasive scent of its origins in the kitchen. Dean hopes it reaches Sam and that the kid still has some appetite in him no matter how ill he's getting: it's the best medicine Dean's got to offer.  
  


They can't afford a hospital now. Sam's right; they can't go to a doctor. Not yet. Not before they've got no other choice.  
  


Growling under his breath, Dean shakes some chili powder onto the fish. That ought to take care of the wheezing.  
  
  


* * *

 

The coughing and wheezing gets worse with the hour. Sam tries to pretend it doesn't, but even though his body temperature is rising again, his lips remain blue, and Dean fears its origins lie with the sickness rather than his prolonged stay in the cold water. To make it worse, he starts scratching himself; at first, it doesn't catch Dean's attention. Not before he starts drawing blood. His skin seems to be cracking, and small droplets of blood rise to the surface, forming bead-like scabs all over his body. Scale-like bits of dry skin fall off of him, and hair thin wounds split into it wherever it stretches with the loss of elasticity. It's 10pm when he decides that no matter what, they can't wait it out any longer.  
  


Sam struggles to argue. His steps are uneven and his eyes seem unfocused as Dean leads him out the door, still wrapped inside the blanket, and pushes him inside the car. When he settles behind the wheel and starts the engine, he spots Sam wiping off blood trickling down his nose. Wordlessly, Dean offers him a napkin bearing the logo of some diner from long ago - he takes it with a shaky hand and presses it over his nostrils, muttering something that makes no sense to Dean as he speeds around the corner and onto the road leading out.  
  


"Where's the nearest hospital?" he asks Sam, knowing he knows, knowing he's organized enough to take note of necessary tidbits like that.  
  


Again, Sam mutters something, head hitting the passenger side window with a dull knock. His eyes are only partially open, and Dean knows they waited far too long to start driving.  
  


"Sam!" he shouts, shaking some part of Sam that he can reach without looking, "Where's the nearest hospital?"  
  


"Turn -" Sam utters, then coughs.  
The sprays on the window look black in the darkness.  
"- back."  
  


"What?"  
  


"Turn back."  
  


"Sam, there's no fucking way -"  
  


"It'll... make me better," Sam wheezes, and his hand falls down from his face, letting the blood from his nostrils drip freely between the leather seat and the car door, "Trust - I... know."  
  


"You'll fucking die, Sam! We're getting you to a doctor."  
  


"Don't - Dean - trust... me."  
  


The car comes to a sudden halt. It throws Sam forwards, and Dean feels his own body sway along. He's gripping the wheel with white knuckles, biting down so hard that his teeth feel like they're about to break.  
  


"I can't let you die, Sam. I can't."  
  


Sam shifts: he lifts his arm and reaches out for Dean, head tilting ever so slightly for him. He's smiling, and even though his lips are dry and cracking, the smile feels genuine - apologetic.  
"Turn back, Dean," he whispers, fingers trailing over Dean's sleeve, "Let me go in the water."  
  


"The - what?"

Dean turns towards Sam, gaping.  
  


"Let me - go back in the water."  
  


"The water started this!" Dean hears himself shout, even though it doesn't make any sense.  
He's been in the water, too. He waded in there up to his waist. He washed his face in it to drive away the heat. And he's not sick - only Sam is.  
  


Sam breathes labouredly, eyes closed and blood still dripping.  
"Trust... me, Dean," he mouths, "Please."  
  


Desperation tugs at Dean's insides. A flashing pain charges through his molars on both sides when he releases the tension in his jaws, grabs the gear shift and, with madness and grief driving him onwards, turns the car around. They're too far away from the hospital. If Sam says the water will help him, then it has to. They've got no other choice left.  
  


He drives past the cottage, the car bouncing and whining as it rolls down the slope and onto the beach. Sam's unconscious, and there's blood everywhere. His skin is slippery with it from the small cuts all over it: it's gluing his hair onto his skin, onto his scalp, and Dean's almost certain some of his hair is already falling out, too. The ground is further away than he thought when he stumbles out the car, but he doesn't let the pain in his ankle stop him from crossing around and pulling open the door on Sam's side. Sam falls into his lap with the smallest sound, and he tries to hold onto something, but his clothes are slipping with the blood and Dean gags at the thought of it pulling off skin with it. He drags Sam out of the car and onto the beach and frantically, despite the pull and pain in his muscles, keeps going until his shoes are filled with sea water and sand.  
  


"We're here, Sammy," he breathes into the darkness.

The sun has gone down, and the sky above is back to its velvety deep violet with stars twinkling all over. Dean glances at them and finds himself praying as the sea laps at his legs and pulls him deeper. He stumbles again, nearly falls over with Sam's weight coming down over him, but then he regains balance and pushes onwards and onwards until the water starts holding Sam up. There, he kneels down despite the freezing cold of the waves against his thighs, groin and stomach, and he pulls his unconscious brother against him and holds him tight, eyes tightly closed, letting the sea caress their bodies. He takes water into his palm and pours it over Sam's head, washing the blood off his face and ears, hopelessly, even though he knows it's for nothing. The water won't heal his brother. Nothing will. It's just salt water, the same as everywhere else - what could it possibly do to save Sam?  
  


They stay there, and Dean's choked sobs are the only thing that carry over the sound of the ocean around them. Sam's not breathing, but his body's still warm against Dean, and Dean clings onto it, not knowing an alternative. He hears himself call his baby brother's name over and over into the darkness, but he doesn't dare to look: his muscles burn with the weight of Sam resting over his arms, and he relaxes them just a little, knowing doing so will lower Sam down under the surface.  
  


Not for long. He needs to breathe. He needs air. But just for a little while, for long enough for the pain to subside. And against the spasms in his body, Dean pulls Sam right back up, feeling his nose press against his neck and his cheekbone press into his shoulder, just like when he was still small and Dean would carry him to bed at night after one of those sleepwalking episodes. He presses his own face into Sam's hair and tastes salt and blood over his lips. The waves rock them, and somewhere in the distance a gull screams once before falling silent again. In the distance, Dean's almost certain he can hear the waves crashing against the cliff's side. Just a day ago, they were picking seashells there. And now he's holding Sam and Sam's not breathing anymore, and he can't wrap his head around how it happened so fast. If they'd gone earlier - if he'd taken Sam into the car like he should have despite his complaints and just driven, would Sam be... would anything be different? Or would he be doubled over a sterile hospital bed instead, blinded by fluorescent lights and the loss of the only home his heart had ever known, surrounded by strangers and medicine, none of which could have helped him save the heart of his universe?  
  


He's so tired - the weight of the waves around him drag him on his knees and he struggles to stay up, but he can feel the sand on the bottom make way for his weight. He can feel Sam's legs scrape against it, and it's so soft and so heavy, and his eyes are still closed, because what is there to see? The dark ocean, the glow of the beach only a few steps away, the whiteness of Sam's face or the trails of blood over his skin? He sways with the current, and his mouth touches the water. It kisses him back, gently and reassuringly. The mother of all life embracing her two sons.

 

* * *

 

Dean sits in the shallow water, eyes upon the blood red horizon. Sam's cold body rests against him still, his arms around it, the water rising and falling underneath his shirt as if he was still breathing. His hair feels rough and tangled as Dean's fingers move through it, and his lips are parted like in his sleep when Dean looks down upon him. The wounds aren't visible anymore. His skin isn't chapped like before, but smooth and white, all too white against the dark of his wet hair. His fingers look unnaturally long underneath the water twisting the image, then shorter again, almost stubby in comparison to his wide palms. There's no blood on his clothes, either. His pyjama pants and the v-neck shirt all look clean, and soft, and when Dean touches them, they warm to his touch quickly. Sam's skin doesn't. He's the same with the water, and no matter how much Dean clings to him, he won't reflect that warmth back to him.  
  


Every now and then, Dean's head nods against his will, and he starts sinking back every time until his balance fails him and he hits the sand beneath with a hard thud that drives his breath away. He feels the cold bite at his flesh and knows his lips are as blue as Sam's, but he doesn't care, can't bring himself to move to warmth or safety. Unconsciousness slips over him and he lets it come, lets it wash away the all-consuming pain, the throbbing and the burn and the crushing weight of loss, and in that half-dreaming state it's easy to believe that once he wakes up, he will be back in his bed and Sam will be there, warm and dry and alive, sleeping or greeting him with a smile, tempting him to start a new day with him here. Sometimes, that thought is interrupted by a deafening silence and a dark depth, a pressure in each of his limbs: through that noiseless void, Dean can almost hear something, a call, a vibration that comforts his heart and lures him downwards, and he sees flashes of something underneath him. White and smooth like skin reflecting light towards him from the darkness, twisting and twirling in a playful manner just out of sight. A dolphin? He feels like it's taunting him. Laughing, as he tries to turn around and reach it. He wants to see it - feel it - he wants to capture it and bring it on land with him. But he can't get to it. He can't reach it.  
  


A hard wave carrying rough sand splashes over his face, waking him up as sea water charges up into his nostrils. He struggles backwards, coughing, blowing air out of his nose with force trying to stop the burning sensation in the back of his throat. Then, when he's safely back on land, he stops: the sand underneath his palms is hot with the heat of the afternoon sun, and the gulls are shrieking, circling the beach in the search for food again.  
  


It takes Dean a moment to realise Sam's not there. At first, that realisation makes him charge up on his feet and wade back into the water, looking for him, but he's not there: his body's nowhere to be seen, not under the water and not on the beach with him either. Instead, he sees footprints leading up the beach, and, with the iron grip of confusion holding his trembling heart in place, he starts following them. The door to the cottage is open: the living room is dark with the curtains pulled over the windows, and it's chilly in comparison to the hot weather outside. Dean touches his cheeks, realising distantly for the first time that he's definitely sunburnt now as he crosses the room. His hair's standing up all over his skin again and the overpowering sense of something being _wrong_ is haunting him, charging him like electricity. The kitchen is lit with natural lights, the curtains open, and on the table, Dean can see Sam's laptop open and whirring with the wifi's light flashing green at a steady pace. A cup of coffee sits beside it, empty: Dean's not sure if it was there before, or if he put Sam's laptop there before they left for the hospital. Swallowing, he turns around and crosses back through the living room to the bedroom door. It's ajar, but only slightly, and Dean pushes his fingers between the door and the frame with his heart pounding so hard he feels like it might burst. Slowly, holding his breath, he drags the door open.  
  


The bed is occupied.  
  


He can see Sam's hair spread all over the pillow, but the rest of him is hidden underneath the blanket, which, as Dean watches, rises gently before falling again in silence. Every part of him is shaking when he moves into the room and around the bed onto his own side, and he feels freezing cold when he places his knee onto the mattress. He half-expects Sam's corpse to charge out from underneath the blanket with arms reached, ready to tear out his throat, but nothing happens; he sees his brother's face up to his nose poking out from underneath the blanket. Steady rise. Steady fall.  
  


"Sammy?" he breathes out, scared and shaking but also throbbing with hope and _need_ for this to be real.  
He reaches out his hand and shakes Sam by the shoulder, and the man stirs, his lashes tangling together before revealing the gold-stained green-blue eyes from underneath. He watches Dean for a moment before tugging the blanket down from over his mouth, and again Dean expects something horrible, something like nail-sharp jagged teeth, but instead he's greeted by the warm pink of his brother's lips, and the sight of his soft tongue dragging over them before Sam speaks.  
  


"What is it?"  
  


Dean's world sways a little and he sits down, leans to the headboard and lets his head loll against the wall behind it. He drags a deep breath and blinks at the ceiling, unable to process this. Was yesterday a nightmare? The burn on his face speaks against it, but he doesn't know what to make of this.  
  


"Jesus, Dean."  
  


Sam climbs up into a sitting position, one leg stretched and the other curved underneath him, and he reaches his hand to carefully stroke Dean's sore face.  
  


"You - what - what happened to you?" he asks.  
  


As if Dean's the big mystery here. Dean imitates him, dragging a finger across his own face. Maybe it's a heat stroke. Maybe yesterday was a hallucination. He went out, fishing. A heat stroke. It _has to be_ a heat stroke.  
  


He turns to look at Sam, whose skin still seems a little pale, but it could be - it could just be that he's getting ill, like he said.  
  


_'s just a cold._   
  


He'd said he wouldn't go swimming if he'd still feel ill in the afternoon. And maybe he never did. Maybe yesterday simply did not happen. Maybe he's been sleeping this whole time, and Dean crashed after tying up the boat - which he did not see on the beach at all, now that he thinks of it. Maybe he didn't tie up the boat after all. Maybe he just thought he did, feverish, and fell unconscious once he got on land.  
  


It makes sense.  
  


It makes so much more sense than the alternative.  
  


And suddenly, he's crying. He doesn't know how to stop and before he can figure it out, Sam's got his arms around him, pulling him close. He struggles, but only for show, and gives in soon after to hide his face in Sam's warm shirt. The tears keep coming, soaking Sam's shoulder up, and his fists grip into the man's shirt and he holds him tight, a little too tight, but Sam doesn't complain. He strokes Dean's back and his hair slowly, reassuringly, even though his body language screams confusion. Dean doesn't have the answers for him. He doesn't even have any for himself.  
  


Finally, he manages to pull away, and he tries to hide his shame into wiping his face with the back of his arm. For a minute, he just stares at the white sheets below. Then he clears his throat and speaks to it.  
  


"What happened?" he asks.  
  


Sam's hand presses over his knee.  
"Dean," he says calmly, clearly, "You're wet."  
  


Dean blinks and looks down at his body. It's true. He's wet and covered in sand. He forgot about that completely.  
  


"Don't you think you should - change your clothes? Clean up? And, uh, we need to take care of that sunburn."  
  


Slowly, he nods.  
"Yeah," he agrees uncertainly, "That... we should do that."

 

* * *

 

Despite the light now pouring in through the living room window, the room still remains cool, almost cold. Dean keeps his eyes closed as Sam spreads thick cream over his cheeks and forehead, wincing a little when the younger sets his finger over his sore lips and paints them white as well. He peers out and examines Sam's concentrated features, trying to shake the unsettling sensation he gets every time he looks at him, trying to forget the way his dead body felt against him, but every time he feels comforted by what he sees, something sets that uncanny feeling off again. He can't put a finger on it: Sam seems the same as always.  
  


But he'd watched him die. He'd _felt_ him die. He held him when it happened.  
  


When Sam's eyes meet his, he turns away with heat charging into his blistering cheeks.  
  


"I want to leave," Dean tells the blanket underneath him, fingers playing with a rough spot in it.  
  


"Why?" Sam asks him, his finger now trailing the sensitive rim of his burnt ear.  
  


"Because -" Dean starts, but he doesn't know how to finish.  
Because the room now reminds him of Sam's illness. The smell of it feels tainted with closing death, each corner of it a witness to Dean's fever-induced nightmares. Because the ocean outside is a graveyard, the beach his brother's death bed, the sand of it the grinding reality of loss so easily piercing through Dean's skin.  
"- I don't think I like it here. This was a mistake."  
  


"I don't want to go," Sam says in a casual voice, "Give it a few days, it'll pass."  
  


"Mm."  
Dean swallows. He doesn't want to argue. He wants to be reasonable. He wants all of that and more as he scratches the stain on the blanket with his blunt nails.  
"No, Sam. I don't think I can. I wish I could explain, but this place feels wrong. I don't want to be here. Something's not right."  
  


He looks at Sam, who seems frozen in mid-movement. They watch each other, Dean's expression pleading for Sam to understand without the words that he can't speak, and Sam's a small frown measuring the despair upon Dean's features.  
  


"We have to go, Sam," Dean tells him.  
  


Something in the room changes. His fingertip ceases upon the stain, the rough texture of it, as he watches Sam.  
  


"We can't leave, Dean," Sam says calmly.  
  


Dean's eyes drop towards his finger, the blanket. He lifts his hand slowly, tilts his body away from in front of the light. It's blood. There's blood on the blanket, and now underneath his nail.  
  


"We have to stay here."

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

Dean pokes at the fish on his plate with his fork, watching Sam's long finger poke around the jar of seashells on the table. The man keeps watching the waves through the window, a calm look on his face, and sometimes it almost sounds like he's humming a tune, but Dean can't make it out well enough to try and recognise it. He feels trapped here, like something's physically binding him into this nightmare. His face is sore even after the treatment Sam gave him, and he's constantly cold with fear, with uncertainty. He's not sure what he's looking at. If this is Sam at all, or some impostor, something inhuman replacing his brother or wearing his skin, reanimating his flesh, and he can't ask. The only thing he knows is that nothing is right, and nothing's been right since the night he caught Sam walking around in the darkness. Perhaps something dragged him in the ocean then. Perhaps it took control of him that night, and now Dean's stuck in its web, unsure if he can still reach his brother, of if there's anything left to save.  
  


"Sammy?" he calls, catching the being's attention.  
  


Sam's eyes examine him and a pained expression crosses his features. He takes his finger out of the jar and reaches across the table.  
"I'm sorry," he says and sounds the part, "I know you're scared, Dean, but I can't - I don't know what to tell you."  
  


"Tell me the truth," Dean begs, "Tell me - are you still - are you my brother, or is my brother dead?"  
  


Sam tilts his head. Dean fears he's thinking, as if the answer shouldn't be crystal clear. He wants to cry again. He's never felt this alone before. This... lost.  
  


"I'm Sam," Sam tells him, "Your brother. I'm the same Sam as before."  
  


"The one who sleepwalked when he was 6?"  
  


"The same one who broke your nose when you tried to wake me up," Sam tells him, a small crooked smile appearing and disappearing from his lips.  
He leans back into his chair and sighs.  
"I don't know what's happening, Dean. I don't have the answers. But I know we can't go - you know what happened yesterday. The further we got, the worse I felt. The closer to death I got."  
  


"There's got to be a way."  
  


Sam shrugs.  
"I don't know."  
He's quiet for a moment, watching the window again.  
"The truth is," he says then, carefully, thinking each word through, "I don't want to leave. I love this place. I love the ocean. I just want to stay. It's not a real choice for me. We can't leave - so what? I don't care. There's nowhere else I want to be."  
  


A tear falls down Dean's cheek. He feels it burn even through the layer of protective balm on his skin.  
  


"I want to _go_ , Sam," he breathes out, each word trembling, "I want to go. We need to go. Something's happening to you."  
  


Sam nods.  
"Yeah."  
His hands wrestle on the table on top of his closed laptop for a while, and he looks sad and worried even though he never stops looking out the window.  
"I know that."  
  


"I watched you _die_ , Sam. You died. Yesterday. You weren't breathing. You were cold and limp and I - I held you for hours in there, Sam, in the ocean, because you told me it would heal you, but it didn't. You're _dead._ "  
  


Finally, Sam looks at him again. He doesn't say anything for a long while, and Dean feels more tears come out as he tries to look for his brother in the other's golden eyes. He wants to believe it's still Sam, but he's been a hunter for far too long to not know better. Then, finally, Sam stands up; his steps are a little off, like he's got arthritis and walking is painful for him, but he crosses the table and hugs Dean against his stomach. Dean lets him do it, and he rests against his brother's body for a while before he realises he can feel his heart beat - he can hear it through Sam's skin, inside his ribcage, right where it should be. His palm slides up and over it and he lets out a dry sob, eyes pressing closed, and he rubs his face against Sam and breathes him in and just wants to _believe_.  
  


"Whatever it is," Sam tells him, palm running through his hair again, "We'll figure it out, Dean. Together. Like we always do."

 

* * *

 

Dean can't fall asleep. He feels Sam next to him, hears him breathe, but he knows from the way Sam's breathing that he isn't asleep either. They're both just lying there, eyes upon the ceiling, quiet, waiting for something to happen.  
  


In the end, Sam turns towards him.  
"Dean?" he speaks quietly, as if afraid to disturb the silence surrounding them.  
  


Dean looks at him.  
"Yeah?"  
  


"Come."  
  


Sam slips out of the bed and Dean follows him. They move across the building slowly, because Sam's limping worse than before. Dean helps him down the steps from the veranda onto the ground and past the car still leaning down the slope, and they head towards the ocean again. The sight of it makes Dean's stomach twist with fear now, and whenever he closes his eyes or draws breath, he can see that white dolphin in the depths again. Laughing at him.  
  


Taunting.  
  


They stop on the beach, and Sam undresses; his body reflects the moonlight like marble, and his toes dig into the sand as he walks forwards. When the water's up to his ankles, Dean realises his legs are twisted strangely, like his hip is broken, and his knees are rubbing against each other. He feels a shudder rush through his spine and his eyes tear up again, and he suddenly wants to run and jump into the car and drive away. But Sam's smiling, reaching out for him, so instead of doing that, he follows him into the water in his t-shirt and his briefs. Sam pulls him close, reassuringly, and kisses him on the forehead. They've never showed affection like this and Dean doesn't know what to do about it, so he closes his eyes, and he's reminded of their mother, the kisses she used to give him. She was so much taller than him. Much bigger, _stronger_ than him. He'd always trusted her to protect him, to protect Sam. Now she's nowhere to be seen, and the water surrounding them is cold.  
  


"What are we doing here, Sam?" he asks, and he realises that he hates the water, the ocean, the whole of it.  
  


It's tearing everything apart. His whole world. Before they came here, before they ever saw the ocean, everything was alright. This, he can't fight. The water's calling Sam and he can't stop it. He can't take Sam away from it, or Sam dies.  
  


Again.  
  


Sam parts from him, although his fingers run the length of Dean's until he's too far to reach him anymore. He walks into the ocean and surrenders to it, his body breaking through the surface with ease as he leans down and pushes himself off the bottom. Dean watches him swim further away and he has trouble swallowing; step by step he moves after him as if chasing him in slow motion, but he doesn't really know what he's doing. He just doesn't want to be alone. Not ever again.  
  


Mom, Dad, and now Sam, too.  
  


Everyone's leaving him.  
  


Sam takes a turn and disappears under the surface. Dean watches the place he vanished at and he's shuddering with cold as the waves lick at his thighs, but then Sam's there - he sees his body under the water and his breath catches in his chest. It's the dolphin. The graceful turn of its marble body, the glimmer of moonlight upon its skin. Sam pushes back onto the surface, smiling, hand reached.  
  


"Come," he says again, and tugs Dean forwards with him.  
  


Dean follows him into the water.

 

* * *

 

Sam sleeps quietly at dawn, but Dean can't. He wanders through the house, endlessly uncomfortable wherever he lands. He sits by the living room window with the fire crackling quietly in its nest, flames low and glowing with warmth, but it burns out all the oxygen in the room so he moves back into the kitchen again. He drinks tea - Sam's - but it doesn't quiet down his mind, and in the horizon, he can see a faint glow of pale gold stretching upon the horizon. Next, he moves to the veranda to watch it turn blood red: mist rises to veil the sun, and its rays poke through the gaps like spears intent on piercing through Dean's throbbing head. There, he finally falls asleep, lulled into rest by the arrythmic songs of seagulls and the steady white noise of the waves.  
  


He wakes up hours later to Sam pressing a steaming cup of coffee into his palm. When he looks up to thank him, the words get stuck in his throat. The man's skin is dry and chapping again: he tries to smile, but it's hard for him to breathe and his smile wavers weakly. His knees press together and it seems walking down the steps is painful for him, but when he's down there, he stops and turns towards Dean again.  
  


"I'm going for a swim," he tells him in a conflicted voice.  
  


The skin around his throat has already torn from his movements, some bright red blood coating the rough skin here and there. Dean nods, choking, and lifts his cup to his lips.  
  


"I'll wait here," he tells him.  
Where else would he go? He remembers the last time this happened. Remembers the weight of Sam's dying body. When Sam moves down towards the ocean, Dean closes his eyes and hopes that something breaks, takes them back to where they were before.  
  


His head aches from the lack of rest and the weight of his thoughts. His body aches the same when he picks himself up, sets the chair back against the wall, and goes after Sam. The sand is warm when he sits down on it, just close enough to the water that the waves lick at his toes, and he watches his brother throw a glance over his shoulder. Their eyes meet and Sam breaks another smile for him before letting his body fall into the waves once more. He disappears, and Dean wonders if he was ever there to begin with. He doesn't know if he can trust his mind: his reality seems false somehow, as if something's broken inside him. Seconds pass, and Sam doesn't rise back to the surface, but Dean doesn't feel concerned, not quite yet. He remembers the white dolphin. Remembers how smoothly it moved under the waves. He can't recognise his brother in the water anyway.  
  


Finally, Sam's head bobs back above the water. He throws his hair back, his bare upper body glistening with salt water, and draws a rubber band from somewhere under the surface - Dean assumes he'd tucked one inside his pocket before leaving the house. Sam ties his hair back with it, brushes the loose ones out of his face and disappears underwater again. Dean drinks his coffee, the heat of the noon sun blanketing him, making him drowsy again. When he looks to the right, he sees the boat there and blinks twice; last time he took note of the beach, it was empty, but now it's back like it never left the shore. It's tied with the chain and dragged far up from the water like a testament to Dean's concerns that he might be losing his mind. Eyes stinging with sand and sleep, Dean turns his head down and stares at the black coffee in his cup.  
  


Nothing in his world makes sense anymore.  
  


Thirty minutes later, he carries two cups of coffee down the hill back to the shoreline, both filled and steaming thick white spiralling signals into the air. He keeps walking past where the water swallows his ankles until he reaches Sam, sitting down in the midst of the waves with clear eyes and a smile on his face. He seems perfectly happy there, and Dean tries to understand him. As he leans down and wets his clothes as he settles next to his brother, Sam reaching for his own cup to free one of Dean's hands to seek balance from the sandy bottom, Dean notices that the other's skin looks smooth again, just like happened last time. The water seems to nourish him somehow, return the elasticity to his skin. He reaches out and touches the man's arm, and it feels slippery, just like when Dean caught his hand on the second night here. Drawing back his finger, he feels like his mug is twice as heavy as it was before as he lifts it up to his lips.  
  


They drink in silence, the water separating them both physically and in spirit, and Dean struggles to cover his coffee from the sprays of waves lapping against their bodies. Sam doesn't seem to mind: he drinks at ease, eyes roaming the endless expanse of the sea stretching into the horizon.  
  


_Stop looking at the ocean_ , Dean wants to scream at him.  
_Stop thinking about it. Stop wanting to go back in it. Stop needing the water more than you need me._  
  


Instead, he finds his mouth dry and his voice dead in his throat. Gulls soar above them, their voices shrill and cold in Dean's ears, but Sam raises his face and closes his eyes as if in a greeting towards them. Sunlight plays upon his shimmering skin, his lashes clumped together and his tied-back hair revealing the small mole above his brow near his temple, and the sharp end of his nose sports a drop of water clinging onto it for a small moment before it falls down into the pit above his lip. Dean doesn't realise he's moving, but he soon sees his finger press into that pit to gather the drop from it. Sam jumps, eyes flashing open and turning towards him, but he doesn't draw away, and Dean drags his finger down the outline of his soft mouth down to its corner and lets his hand fall down again. There are tears in his eyes and Sam maps them out with his gaze, but even though they both know he's seen them, he doesn't make note of them and instead closes his eyes again to bathe in the sunlight.  
  


Dean watches him tug at his pants under the waves, drag them a little further down his legs so that the sharp curve of his hips is exposed. If he didn't know better, he'd think he's turned even paler down his body, with the upper half of it tan from all the sunlight even despite the condition that seems to keep him weakened still, but the lower half now seems a shade of pale white - like the belly of a fish. Dean swallows, reaches to plant his cup a little further up in the sand in the hopes that waves won't topple it, and he moves closer to Sam and takes a hold of the waistband of his pants. Sam jumps again, frowning and throwing a warning glance towards him, uncertain why he's there or why he's touching him, but Dean ignores him and drags the fabric down until he's revealed more of Sam's skin, and he's now almost certain there is a difference - a stark one - between the colour of his body there and elsewhere. It seems to be a gradual change, which is why he'd never paid attention to it before, an even shift from one colour to the other, but thanks to the water drawing a line between the two halves of Sam, Dean can't ignore it anymore. Some dark part of him wants to throw Sam under the water and tear off his clothes altogether to get some answers, _any_ would do, but instead he lets go and crawls back further up the beach, grabs his coffee and drinks it until there's nothing more to drink.  
  


Then he stands up and turns to leave. He wants to say something: a goodbye, the schedule for dinner, but he's got nothing in him. When he finally stops on the veranda, dragging off his clothes to hang them to dry, he sees Sam's abandoned mug on the beach and the ripples he's left behind where he last broke the surface.

 

* * *

 

It's not rare that Dean looks at his phone and wishes he could still pick the number of his father or the number of Bobby Singer, but he can't remember the last time that wish came with a need as burning as this, or with tears he can't hold back anymore. He sits in the quiet of the pleasant-smelling bedroom, the window open towards the land and the rolling hills and meadows and forests, decisively as far from the ocean as he can get without leaving the lot altogether. His finger trembles as he types keywords onto his tablet; uncertain where to start, he decides to open a tab after tab and type in every last word that has crossed his mind within the past 42 hours.  
  


Drowning mythology. Sea myths. Ocean people. What happens to fish when they dry? Merpeople. Mermaids. What is the difference between a siren and a mermaid? Do mermaids exist? Mermaids drowning sailors.  
  


How to deal with grief.  
  


Even this far away from the shore, the sounds of the sea are still distinctly present no matter how much Dean wants to shut them out. He's still clicking through links when he hears a thud and something hard knocking against the porch, perhaps signaling Sam's return, and a half of him listens to the sounds of the man drying himself to the towels set on the flimsy table there as the rest of him concentrates on his desperate need for answers. He skims through most of the articles, and others are nothing but a source of painful frustration for him.  
  


_10 Differences Between Disney's Little Mermaid And Real Mermaids._  
  


_Top 5 Pre-Internet Hoaxes (That Might Be True)._  
  


_Romance At Sea: A Better Look At Mermaids._  
  


"Dean?" Sam calls from the living room.  
Dean ignores him, but his limping steps lead him to the bedroom door soon enough anyway. The older raises his brows at him with an otherwise blank look on his features when he stands there, hair still tied back and his legs - Christ.  
  


He shuts the door behind him, perhaps sensing and respecting Dean's sudden hatred of the ocean, and moves to the bed beside his brother. Dean doesn't pull his research away or in any way try to hide it from Sam, a part of him hoping that Sam will start laughing when he sees what he's looking through. Instead, Sam's quiet, eyes keen upon the articles that Dean's scrolling through. The fish market smell is gone: he just smells of the ocean now. In the next fifteen minutes, he leans closer and closer until their shoulders stick together, and they're both reading the same articles without speaking, with Sam sometimes pushing Dean's fingers aside to add another tab in: _Greek mythos, Unsolved disappearances fishermen sea, Sea sirens, local legends sea siren shore._  
  


"What do you want to eat?" Dean asks him after two hours of silence, when the battery indicator in the top right of the screen shows 47% remaining.  
  


Sam lets out a sound, the same annoying sound he always makes when he's not paying attention, and Dean thrusts against him with his shoulder that feels numb from the prolonged contact with Sam's.  
  


"I asked you what you want to eat."  
You fucking half-fish freak.  
  


Sam lifts his head slowly. He pushes a suddenly curly bit of escaped hair behind his ear and his eyes look like he's staring off into some depth or distance that is all but hidden from Dean. Then he shakes his head and bends over the tablet again.  
"Anything's good."  
  


"Pick something."  
  


"Coconut fish stew."  
  


"What?"  
  


Dean watches Sam's lips bend into a small smile and his finger reach for the tablet to scroll the article visible upon it, but he quickly removes the tablet from him to keep his attention. Sam turns his gaze towards him and he's so fucking beautiful, and Dean loves him so much, and there's no way in hell he's letting him go.  
  


"We bought some coconut milk, right?" he begins, but Dean cuts him off.  
  


"You mean _you_ bought some coconut milk."  
  


Sam cocks his head.  
"Yeah. I bought some coconut milk. There are a thousand recipes for that. I think it might be good."  
He peers at Dean for a moment with that annoying soft smile on him the whole time.  
"You cook a lot better than you give yourself credit for, you know."  
  


Dean scoffs and drops the tablet on the bed, but this could well be the first time he feels a tingle of something other than anxiety in days.  
"Fetch me a recipe and I'll see what I can do."

 

* * *

 

Sam's appetite is better today. For the past days, Dean can barely recall him eating at all, but now he's having two bowls and it all seems to sit with him fairly well. He retires for a siesta afterwards, and Dean sits next to him sleeping with the burden of research they've built for themselves before the meal, trying to shift through the unnecessary information to find the gold nuggets hidden in the midst instead. It's frustratingly difficult: he's heard of hunters chasing mermaids before, but he's never believed that they really existed. His job has been tied to the land, and whatever hunts there with him - even if the myths were true, and even Bobby believed them at a time, he wouldn't have bothered himself with them. He knows of water spirits, of beings that lurk in the ponds and rivers and sometimes drag innocent or less innocent victims to their waters and drown them, or simply give them the scare of their lives perhaps in the hopes of driving them to better choices in the future, but they're not mermaids - they don't even come close to the same league. And yet, although he's read those stories from his father's journals a million times before, he digs it up from that lone bag in the living room anyway and dives in, searching through it while sitting as close to Sam as he can, completely ignoring the invisible line drawn into the bed by that squished pillow mountain in the middle. When the sun starts climbing down, he's got his back inside that pillow: his eyes feel dry from all the reading he's done, and Sam's watching him quietly over the pillow stuck between his head and his arm.  
  


"Have you found anything?" he finally asks in a weak voice quite like that of a sick child.  
  


Dean shakes his head and closes another tab. With three remaining, he doesn't know what kind of a miracle could save them anymore.

 

* * *

 

A dripping sound wakes Dean up. It's so dark that it takes him a while to realise he's awake at all, and even longer to understand that it's raining again. The dripping sound is the water falling down from the worn roof and hitting the ground underneath the window that he never closed. He stays there, lying in the darkness with his eyes staring at the ceiling and only slowly getting used to the darkness, and he knows he's alone in the bed. Sam's gone again, and Dean doesn't need to ask where he's gone. He knows it perfectly well, and so does the whispering ocean: he listens to it, almost expecting to hear Sam in the midst of the waves. Instead, he hears something fly past the window, and finally he pulls himself up and faces the inevitable. The first thing he does is reach for his phone - it's 2:14am, still about three hours to sunrise. A sigh passes his lips. He's tired of these nights.  
  


He's tired of everything.  
  


Expecting to get wet again, he doesn't bother pulling on any clothes, but he does leave a light on in the kitchen to call him back home eventually. He peers out the window for a while and to his surprise, he spots Sam right away: his shape is like a white, smooth stone against the deep dark ocean. Dean looks around and spots the mostly decorative storm lantern on the counter. They've used it occasionally, and now, lacking any memories as to where they might have packed or unpacked the flashlights, he picks it up and lights it before going outside. Despite the gentle rain, the air isn't cold, simply wet, and he walks steadily up to the beach towards Sam's crouched figure with the lamp lifted.  
  


For a while, he can't figure out how Sam's positioned. He doesn't seem to have a head, and Dean feels nervous as he keeps peering out for any outline of his wet hair in vain. Only when he's already slowed down, ready to consider the possibility that this creature is _not_ his brother, he realises Sam's head is right where it should be, only lowered between his knees that he's hugging against his chest. The shape of his legs seems weird, boneless, but Dean ignores it knowing they've looked off for days now - it doesn't register with him as something new anymore.  
  


"Sammy?" he calls as he approaches, worried that he might spook the younger, uncertain if he's awake at all.  
  


The closer he gets, the more Sam's vision chills him. Something's wrong - more wrong than before - and his guts are telling him to make a 180 and leave. The lamp shakes in his hands as he pushes onwards, all the way until he's right behind Sam.  
  


"Sammy."  
  


Dean places the lamp on the sand and crawls next to his brother on all fours, landing his palm on his shoulder as he sits down next to him. He's shaking as he pushes Sam's hair out of his face and tucks it behind his ear, and Sam's looking at him from the corner of his eye, his pupils wide. Dean examines him, his eye, and tries to figure out what's wrong with it. It seems different - the pupil larger, for one. He tries to smile encouragingly, trying to get Sam to interact with him, but the only response he gets is more staring.  
  


"Why are you here?" he asks, dumbly as if he doesn't know yet that the ocean wants his brother.  
  


Sam seems to shake a little. He presses his eyes closed and then looks decisively into the pit between his legs and arms, into the black shadows that cover his body where the light can't reach. The lamp behind them makes the darkness only seem that much darker.  
  


"I'm waiting," he says in a hollowed voice.  
  


"Waiting for what?"  
Dean leans closer.  
  


"For the pain to end."  
  


His eyes skip over Sam's knees, aiming momentarily towards the waves past him - and then jump back towards what he doesn't believe he saw right. There's skin covering what should be the gap between the other's legs. They seem to be melting together: Dean can see the blood vessels creeping across the pale canvas like worms wriggling underneath a thin layer of dumpling dough. He draws back in horror: Sam's watching him again, expressionless.  
  


"It hurts," he says quietly, his voice raw and mixing with the waves.  
  


"Sam -"  
  


"It hurts."  
  


Dean swallows. He's gone cold all over, and he's shaking, but as he watches, something in Sam's legs dislocates and the other lets out a pained moan, eyes pressing closed and his mouth opening to let tortured, heavy breaths out. The next thing he knows, he's got his arms around Sam; he doesn't know what else to do, so he holds his brother, fingers deep in his hair, and lets him sob weakly into the front of his shirt. They stay like that until another snap breaks the silence, and finally Dean reaches out to push Sam's knees down - he needs to see what's happening, so he takes the lamp from behind them and brings it closer.  
  


From the ankles up, Sam's legs have joined together. His shins seem to have crushed into one, and his calves have fattened up - they're still changing, swelling. His toes are splitting, growing a web of white skin between each, and his thighs are smooth and round and completely merged together except for a long, sealed slit still visible over his groin, and above that, his hips now look wider than before, padded with fat from both sides. It takes Dean a moment to realise the slit that he's viewing isn't there because the skin hasn't stretched over it yet, but rather, it covers his brother's cock - it's hidden underneath there between what used to be his legs, tucked out of the way so that his body remains streamlined in the water.  
  


"Fuck," he grunts, stunned, freaked out, scared, disgusted.  
Whatever he expected, this was not it. This, he's got no clue how to work with.  
  


Horrified, he looks at Sam, who looks back at him with his eyes watering. The younger begins to mouth something, but suddenly crouches over again in pain, whimpering; he presses his head back against his knees, which already seem harder to bend into this position.  
  


The skin seems to be thickening already, and Dean can barely see the veins underneath anymore.  
  


"What can I do? Sam, talk to me. What do you need?"  
  


Sam shakes his head, letting out a miserable, throaty groan.  
"Make it stop," he speaks indistinctly against his newly merged legs - his... tail, or whatever his body is trying to imitate, "Nothing... makes it stop."  
  


Dean crawls closer again. He can't stay away. Not when the younger's hurting like this. Whatever's happening to him, his pain is more important than Dean's fear. In front of his eyes, Sam's toes keep cracking, stretching: his nails are slowly getting pushed out of the way, too wide to fit in his body anymore. The skin between each toe is already reaching the tips, quickly covering the hollows the nails left in their wake. Dean closes his eyes and presses his lips into his baby brother's hair, arms around him again, rocking them both gently.  
  


"It'll be over soon, Sammy. Just a little bit more. You can make it. I know you can. Remember that time you broke your leg, little brother? When you jumped off the roof?"  
  


Sam sobs; he sounds like he's choking, and his body is tense and shaking.  
  


"You survived that, too. You've been through worse than this. You survived the withdrawals from the demon blood, too, right? That was awful, wasn't it? But you made it through. You're strong. You battled Lucifer, Sam, and you won that too. You came out. You lived. You made it. I don't know how, but you did it. And you've done so much more than that. You've been through _everything_ , Sam. This isn't worse than that. And this won't last forever. I know it won't. You just gotta make it through tonight, Sammy."  
  


He kisses him again, this time on the forehead.  
  


"I know you can do it, Sam," he says with fierce emotion, hands now gripping both sides of Sam's head and forcing him to look at him, "I know you can do anything. Get through anything. Because you're strong, and you never give up. You're my baby brother, and I'm so, so proud of you, Sam. And I love you so much. More than anything. More than I should. More than I'll ever love anybody else."  
  


Sam looks back at him, a drop of blood forming in the corner of his mouth. Dean knows he's bitten through his lower lip; he can just see the jagged edge of the cut spreading blood into the texture of the thin skin there.  
  


"You hear me, little brother?" he asks, choked, burning, "You hear me through that pain? You're gonna make it. Nothing can beat you. There'll never be anything that's gonna be bigger than you. And this - whatever this is - isn't gonna best you either. You said it, remember? Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. And this is it, Sam. This is us doing what we do - surviving. The only thing you've gotta do now... is survive."  
  


The younger's eyes are hazy, glassy, and when Dean's grip of him loosens up, Sam leans against him and rests his head on his shoulder. He breathes weakly but defiantly, each inhale a struggle against the will to let go, and Dean forces himself to watch the transformation his body is going through to understand, even if he'll never grasp the whole of it, at least a fraction of the suffering Sam's living through. He holds him close, feeling each and every shiver, the spasms in his muscles as they rearrange themselves around his mutilated, slowly mending bones, and the way his breath shakes as his nerves reorganize, snap and reconnect around his body.  
  


The night seems to go on forever. Dean doesn't know when the rain stopped, only that it left his shoulders wet but the rest of him quite dry. The clouds are parting above them, stars joining the flickering light of the flame trapped inside the storm lantern. In the east, sun is starting to climb up again, but its light is nothing but a faint platinum line above the ocean yet. Slowly, Sam starts trembling less, and even though his breathing is still shallow and quick, it no longer sounds like he struggles as much to draw air. He's resting heavy against Dean, fingers buried in the sand on one side and on the other, his fist still remains firmly wound around Dean's shirt on his lap. The new skin on his tail is pearl white now, the tone of it gradually morphing into the golden tan of Sam's stomach, much earlier in the middle than on the sides. On the sides, the white climbs up to his hip bones, but in the middle, the golden colour runs all the way around his slit before surrendering to the white. The end of his tail has ceased resembling anything like feet a long time ago, its two wide halves resting spread and half buried in the sand underneath the water.  
  


"Still beautiful, little brother," Dean mumbles into Sam's hair, eyes closing, "You're still beautiful."  
  


As if that was ever a concern - as if anything else could ever be true in Dean's eyes.  
  


A large wave curls up in the distance, and once it crashes on the beach, it wets them both. Sam stirs to it, his eyes opening; there's a hollow behind them now, his pupils wide and black and empty, as he stares at the ocean.  
  


"Bring me in the water," he says, and his voice is as empty as his eyes seem.  
  


Dean expected it. He tucks his arm underneath Sam's knees, feeling the surprising weight of his lower body as he pulls it up from the ground. The water splashes down from the tail as he draws it out of the water, and Sam's upper body remains quite as limp when Dean picks it up and presses it against his chest. He struggles to stand up with the combined weight of them both and nearly doesn't make it at all: his knee digs deep into the sand as he forces his other leg to make the push, and then he's finally lifting Sam. His legs shake as he moves into the waves, and the force against him makes it a long, slow journey into the deeper waters. There's a clear golden belt around the horizon when his elbows finally touch water, and he lowers Sam into it, releasing the weight of his body into the waves. For a second, nothing happens. Sam sinks, and Dean watches the surface of the water blindly, his mind empty. Then, in a streak of pure white, his brother twists around and charges away, leaving behind a whirlpool at Dean's feet. For a moment, he has to swim to keep his balance, and when he reaches for the bottom, it's no longer there.  
  


Dean casts a look towards the lit kitchen window of the cottage, the shape of his beloved car parked in front of it, and the abandoned storm lantern twinkling upon the sands, all three of them calling him to turn back, and a certain heaviness lingers in his chest. Through it, however, he feels ready, prepared; the next direction he looks into is the direction of the sun, of a new morning. He feels the water move around him as Sam returns, and he gazes down at the creature when it surfaces again, dark hair flat over the shape of its forehead, thick lashes surrounding those strange, dark eyes. He smiles and closes his eyes, breathes out and then in again, and for the first time in years _feels_ the air pass through his lungs. The crispiness of it, the sweet, dizzying sensation of oxygen flooding his body. Then he looks at Sam again, and his smile grows wider.  
  


"Together," he breathes out, shivering with cold, "Right, Sammy?"  
  


Slowly, the creature nods, and Dean kicks and feels the water rise above the top of his head. He opens his eyes and they sting in the salt water, but he doesn't particularly mind it or care about it, merely finds it inconvenient as he tries to make sense of Sam's figure in front of him. He feels the other's firm, cold hands take a hold of him and then they're moving down: his fingers slip over Sam's skin as the light grows fainter and fainter above him, and his lungs start feeling the pressure of the water around him. He wants to say something to his brother - that he loves him - but it's too late now, and the choices he's made and the words he's spoken are set in stone. The current grips them, the weight of the ocean surrounds them, and as the darkness returns, Dean closes his eyes, holds tighter, and lets his lungs fill with sea water.

 


	5. Afternote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, this note deals with the subject of suicide. Avoid if necessary.

* * *

 

I'd like to point out that this fic can be read in two different ways - one reading being literal, and the other allegoric.

For the alternative, it's worth considering that Sam may have committed suicide after spending one last good day with Dean in chapter 2. The rest of the fic is Dean suffering a psychotic breakdown as a result of finding him dead, and he brings Sam's body back to the cottage to try and pretend that nothing's changed until finally choosing to let go and drowning himself together with Sam's corpse when the decay becomes too obvious.

While I'm honestly sorry for suggesting it, the subtext was deliberately written into the fic as one possible explanation for the events.

All said and done, I'm in love with the thought of mer!Sam, and it may also be possible that in drowning Dean, he inflicts his condition upon him, and they both go through the transformation, therefore staying together in a new life. Maybe more mature merbeings have the ability to transform back into human form as some lore suggests, and they simply return back home one day and carry on living the life they wanted to have there. In any case: to any hunters out there, good luck finding and offing these two.

 

* * *

 


	6. Attachments

* * *

 

 

  
_[by Armellin](http://armellin.tumblr.com/post/149430039845/commission-for-my-dear-friend-beekeepercain-to)_

  
  


* * *

 

 

  
_[by ArchTroop](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8141423/)_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Should I Do???](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8141423) by [ArchTroop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchTroop/pseuds/ArchTroop)




End file.
